Creek Running North

Last night Zeke walked ten miles with me down sleeping streets. I was headed for the truck, which I had parked at the BART station, and how could I refuse him? He begged to come along so prettily, his tail wagging hard. Down San Pablo Avenue toward El Cerrito we trotted, and it was hard to keep up. His ears stood erect, eyes dark and shining. A few years back he could leap four feet in the air from a crouch, and it was hard to keep him off the picnic table if other dogs were near. He leapt like that again last night, prancing the tops of retaining walls sure-footed. I tired before he did. It felt good, the leash taut in front of me again. No trembling legs went out from under him behind. He flinched happily at my slightest murmur. He moved to cross a street against a light: I cleared my throat softly the way I used to and he obeyed, waiting until I said “cross.”

A squirrel ranged too far from the trees in a pocket park. Zeke strained at the leash and barked, a clear loud bark unmuted by aging vocal chords. I grinned, and laughed, and he barked again, more muffled. I opened my eyes. He lay next to our bed, barking joyous through closed mouth at a dreamt squirrel or cat, his feet flicking as he ran the streets of our dreaming.